At the End of the World
by I-Love-Capn-Raydor
Summary: stfu, zombies.  i swear.  and eventual brenda/sharon.  it's going to be a scary smutty angsty hurt/comfort adventure.  with brenda.  and sharon.  and zombies.  because it needs to happen, is why, and i cannot not write it.
1. Chapter 1

After she passed the third accident on the PCH, Brenda got worried. Pulling off ahead of the wreck, she reached for her radio, ready to relay the location of this latest pile-up. Her eyes cut automatically to the small green signs peppering the side of the highway. Mile markers. She wondered how many people drove past them with no idea of their significance.

"Dispatch, this is Chief Johnson. I have a 4 car MVC on the PCH, marker 48 going northbound. Looks like a bad one, might want to send the bus and the freezer."

She waited. She hated these new digital radios. Before, you could use the familiar hissing to let you know that you were on the air. These digital frequencies kept an eerie silence until the person on the other end responded.

"Dispatch. Chief Johnson, come in?" She leaned down, and fiddled with the control panel, checking the volume. Everything was in order. But the radio remained silent. She dropped the handset, sighing, and pulled her cell phone from her oversized tote. She keyed in the familiar number for the direct ring to central Dispatch.

"All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later." The disembodied voice intoned.

"Dammit! Digital is the future my left foot!" Brenda tossed the phone back into her bag, and reached down between the seats for her Mag-light. She was going to have to at least see what she could do for those poor people. She pushed open the car, and stepped out in to the salty air. Clicking on the light, she trained the beam on the car pinned to the guard-rail. The people in there were most likely already dead, the metal mangled beyond recognition, but she had to start somewhere.

Shining the light through the rear window, she swallowed back the bile. An empty carseat didn't bode well, but maybe the child hadn't been in the car. Brenda could only hope. Moving around, she focused the beam on the driver's seat, finding that window rolled down. A man sprawled over the steering wheel, his head bent at an unnatural angle, the unused seatbelt dangling uselessly behind him. Brenda shook her head. He might have had a chance, before the impact of his body against the windshield snapped his spine. She was about to turn away, continue checking, when impossibly, the dead man groaned. Brenda gasped.

"Sir? Don't move. You've been in a terrible accident, and you most likely have a broken neck. Moving might make the damage worse. She gingerly stepped closer, putting her hand on the arm hanging limply over the steering column. He felt cold, colder than Brenda expected, and she pulled her hand away. His eyes snapped open at the loss of her touch, and they seemed cloudy, as though a milky film lay across them. An uneasy chill washed over Brenda, and she smiled thinly.

"You just hold tight sir. I need to check on the occupants of the other vehicles. Help will be here soon." She stepped away, suppressing a shudder. "I hope."

She moved to the next vehicle, this one an SUV with tinted windows. She shined her light in anyway, pressing her face close to the glass. She couldn't see much, but from what she could make out, there were two people inside, and both were still. She tried to pull the door open, but the ruined metal made that impossible. She sighed, and moved to the third car. A young woman was pinned against the steering wheel, the driver seat pushed so far forward; Brenda was amazed she was still breathing. She tried the handle on this car as well, but again, it was fruitless. She raised her voice to be heard through the glass.

"Ma'am? You were in a terrible accident. Help is on the way, so you just hang on, okay? Just hang on."

The fourth car was the least damaged, and Brenda approached it with more hope than she had the other vehicles. The small pickup truck's hood was crumpled, but the side panels seemed to be mostly intact. She trained the beam on the driver's side window. A young Asian man was slumped against the window, his face covered in blood.

"Sir?" Brenda tapped the window with her flashlight. He didn't move. She pulled at the handle, sighing in relief when the door came open. She moved around, to brace the young man as she pushed the door open the rest of the way. His skin was also cool, and Brenda wondered how long they'd been on the roadside, and where the ambulances were. Surely some other passerby had been able to reach emergency services. L.A. was famous for being shallow, and superficial, but Brenda was sure enough humanity remained that someone would've called.

The young man let out a pitiful whimper as she eased his body out of the truck. He had a wicked cut across his forehead, and his left arm flopped uselessly at his side. She laid him gently on the ground, and felt for his pulse. He whimpered again, and his eyes seemed to flutter behind the papery skin of his eyelids. She glanced at her watch, and wondered at the sluggish beats beneath her fingers. She stood, and reached into the truck, flicking on the hazard blinkers. She looked down at the young man, and decided perhaps flares might be in order. She walked quickly back to her own car, and popped the trunk, pulling out the emergency highway flares, and walked back about 20 yards past the ruined vehicles, before setting out the glowing cones.

Sighing, she returned to her car, and tried the radio again, to no avail. She plucked her cell phone from her tote, and pulled the self-heating blanket from the emergency kit in her trunk. She headed back to the pick-up truck, and knelt next to the young man, tucking the blanket around his thin frame. He groaned, a thick, guttural sound. She smoothed his hair back.

"Shhh. It'll be all right. I got you a blanket, and I'm going to call again, and see how long before help arrives. You just try not to move, okay?"

She dialed 911 this time, breathing a sigh of relief as it rang. Her relief quickly turned to puzzlement, and then to stomach churning dread as the line continued to ring, unanswered. Perhaps there'd been a terrorist attack on the department. She closed her eyes against the picture of the new building, holding her team, the whole department, and all of central Dispatch for the whole of L.A. county, in flames. Looking at the young man, pallid and sweating now, she realized she couldn't, in good conscience, wait any longer. The other people in the other cars were perhaps beyond help, but this boy was in her hands now. She got to her feet, and moved to stand at his head. She shoved her hands under his shoulders, and pushed him into a sitting position, and stepping to his side, she pulled his arm around her shoulders, hauling him into a staggering stance. She reached for his other arm, and shifted, so that his torso was supported mostly on her back, and she took two wobbling steps before she kicked off her kitten heels, wincing as the pavement bit into the soles of her feet. Slowly, she made her way to her car, and pulled the back door open. He tumbled gracelessly from her grasp, landing hard on the bench seat, though it didn't seem to jar him out of his pain induced stupor. His eyes fluttered open briefly, but they stared off into a distance Brenda couldn't see. She tucked his feet into the car, and slammed the door, then got into the driver's seat. Pulling out into the unusually light traffic, she tried 911 and central dispatch again, and got the 'all circuits are busy' message. She tried Fritz, and Gabriel, and in a fit of desperation, she dialed Sharon Raydor. All to no avail. Brenda tried not to panic, even as she cursed her tendency to listen to top 40 pop stations instead of talk radio. Not that it mattered, she realized, as she snapped on the sound system and scanned through the stations. Hissing static. Katy Perry. More hissing static. Brenda glanced in her mirror at the young man in her back seat. He'd curled himself into a fetal position, moaning every so often.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the hospital came into view. Then she frowned, as the throngs of people in the parking lot and emergency lanes in front of the building registered.

"What on earth?" She whispered to herself, maneuvering the car into a spot that wasn't packed with pedestrians. Turning the ignition off, she once more tried central dispatch, and then threw her phone down in disgust. Realizing she'd feel better with it on her person, she tucked it into her blazer pocket, and got out of the car. She walked around to the back of the car, and pulled the door open. Reaching in, she shuddered at the clammy coolness of the young man's skin. She hooked her arm around his back, and pulled him up into a sitting position, and then scooted him to the edge of the seat, swinging his legs out onto the ground. She hefted him up so that once again, her back was supporting most of his torso, and she staggered a bit under the weight. She wished she'd gone back for her shoes, though she knew she wouldn't have been able to make even this awkward trek in them. But she cringed at the thought of going into the hospital barefoot. Lord only knew what she might pick up.

She pressed through the people milling about in front of the doors, and as the entrance slid automatically open, she stepped through, and immediately called for help. A quick look around showed that the ER was packed. The older woman at the registration desk looked as though she'd been crying, and Brenda felt badly for her, but decided her good samaritanism was on the brink of running out. She approached the desk.

"Excuse me, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I need a little help." She smiled sweetly as the woman looked up at her with tired eyes.

"You'll have to sign in, and wait to be called." Came the dry response.

"I don't know this young man's name to sign him in, you see? He was in a car accident, and I couldn't get through to emergency services for some reason. So I brought him here in my car." Brenda's arms were beginning to tremble from the effort of holding the young man in place.

"You and half the county had trouble, lady. Like I said. Sign in, and have a seat." The woman started to turn away.

Brenda sighed deeply. This wasn't going at all as she'd envisioned. She cleared her throat, and when the woman didn't turn back to her, Brenda decided to play dirty.

"LAPD. I'm going to have to speak to your supervisor, then."

"You're a cop?" The woman sounded slightly disbelieving.

"If I wasn't holding a hundred and thirty pounds of concussed young man in my arms, I'd badge you, but you'll have to take my word for it," she peered at the nametag and continued, "Doris. Now are you going to get me a wheel chair or something for this poor boy?"

"Yes ma'am." Doris seemed sufficiently cowed, and Brenda smiled tightly at her as she leaned heavily on the desk.

Doris returned quickly, pushing a shiny wheelchair in front of her. Brenda waited until the locks had been engaged, and then bent down, lowering the boy into the chair with a little help from Doris. Once the weight had, literally, been lifted from her shoulders, she stood up straight and groaned as her lower back protested the prolonged burden.

"Thank you so much, Doris. Now, I was on my way home from work, on the PCH, and I passed 3 accidents. Two of them already had emergency services in place, but the third one was a 4 car MVC, with nary an ambulance in sight. I pulled over, set up flares, secured the scene as best I could, but I could not for the life of me get through to 911, or the direct dial to central dispatch. What on EARTH is going on? And why are there all those people out front?"

"I honestly don't know, Officer." She started to explain, but Brenda interrupted.

"Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson, but you can call me Brenda, under the circumstances."

"Brenda, then. I don't know what's going on. I was supposed to be off duty at 6, but admin is making everyone pull doubles. We've been swamped all day, people complaining of a sudden onset of fever, aches, headache. Thing is, it seems to be the same all over LA County. St. Marks up the road is just as swamped as we are. All the ERs in the area are standing room only, and we're running out of beds. Guess that's why the 911 system went down, maybe? Too many people trying to call for help." Doris shrugged, and turned to look closely at the young man in the chair. "You said he was in a car accident?"

"Yes. He was the fourth car in a small pile up. There are still people up there, but I couldn't get them out..the car doors were too mangled to open. I'm pretty sure one man is dead, he must be by now, and I don't know about the others. They didn't look too bad, from what I could see through the windows, you understand, but I wasn't able to make a complete assessment."

"Well. He looks just like everybody else we've seen today, aside from the dislocated shoulder. Pale, feverish…you might want to keep an eye on yourself over the next few days, make sure you don't come down with whatever this bug is. Seems to be a doozy. Anyway, if you write down the location of the accident, when we get a free bus, I'll send someone up to check on the rest of the vics." Doris was back in full business mode, and Brenda was relieved that the young man wasn't her responsibility any longer.

"All right then. Well thank you so much for all of your help, Doris. I certainly appreciate it. I hope you get to go home soon." She smiled again, but a genuine smile this time, as she scratched the mile marker and direction on a post it.

"Thanks, you take care." Doris wheeled the young man around to the triage cube.

Brenda watched for a moment, then turned and walked out of the hospital. She was tired, she was achy, and she'd left a perfectly good pair of shoes on the side of the highway. She wanted to go home, and have a big glass of merlot, and curl up with her husband and her cat, and forget all about today.


	2. Chapter 2

THREE DAYS LATER 

Brenda wet another cloth, wiping it across Fritz's sweaty brow. He shivered under the blankets, mumbling incomprehensibly at times. Brenda thought her heart might break into a thousand bits. The last 72 hours had been brutal. The cable was still on, though Brenda had long since muted the sound, because the Emergency Broadcasting System hadn't had anything new to say beyond stay indoors, due to an unexplained viral outbreak. Before Fritz had fallen ill, he'd been following people's tweets on that Tweeter Charlie was always on about, and while Brenda still didn't quite understand it, she was glad that whatever had befallen the phone lines hadn't disrupted the internet. Right now, Tweeter was the only thing giving Brenda any information. She swallowed thickly, as Fritz moaned piteously. Not that the information she was gathering was at all heartening. People were dying. Doctors were baffled. Hospitals were overrun. That's why Brenda had Fritz here, on the couch. He was too weak to make the stairs, barely able to make it to the bathroom without help. The city had shut down, no investigations, only essential personnel, so Brenda didn't even have that to distract her. She turned back to the little netbook on the table, and refreshed the page.

LazySusan48: Schools are closed in San Francisco. #outbreak #crazytimes

BuckyBaller: Dude. This is aaall because of vaccinations. You'll see. #outbreak #FTG!

TheRealWolfBlitzer: Breaking News: Viral Epidemic in California spreads to Oregon. #outbreak #CNN

Brenda winced at the last tweeter. The Governor had been slow to close the borders once it became obvious that this was a fast acting pathogen. People wondered about biological warfare, if this had been some sort of airborne terrorism. Course, there were always the crazies like BuckyBaller, who turned everything into a government conspiracy. And then there were the crazy crazies. People who made ridiculous claims about the dead not really being dead after all, or people who'd been infected suddenly turning violent and aggressive, the whole thing made Brenda angry. Why make a catastrophe worse with blatant lies and exaggeration? As she watched Fritz shudder and shiver beneath the blanket, with his matted hair and his skin slick with sour sweat, she couldn't imagine that anyone would need to make *this* any worse by exaggeration. This was awful. Just awful. Joel wouldn't even come near her when she was next to Fritz. His little hackles would raise, and he actually hissed and took a swipe at the supine man when Brenda had moved too close while snuggling the little cat.

The image on the television switched from the EBS logo to a man in military dress at a podium. Brenda fumbled for the remote, and hit the mute button.

"…you for bearing with us. I am General Yearwood, and I've been asked to address the current situation in California, and now, Oregon as well. As you know, both states are suffering the effects of a swift moving viral illness, which is often proving fatal, especially in the elderly, and the very young. The State and Federal Government are working tirelessly on treatment options that will lessen the fatality of this illness. In the interest of minimizing the impact of this devastating outbreak, we will be setting up treatment centers at the following locations."

Brenda tuned out. There was no way Frtiz would be healthy enough to travel. Actually, now that she thought about it, it was unlikely ANYONE who was ill was well enough to travel to the centers. She peered at the TV as though she could find an answer in the glass.

"…and lastly, the YMCA in Compton will handle the overflow from the Primary Treatment Facilities. I understand that you may be concerned that your family member or loved one is too ill to travel. To that end, we will be sending around specially outfitted retrieval units. We can transport 200 people comfortably, and safely, at a time. Beginning this afternoon at 1300, please be on the alert for the retrieval unit assigned to your neighborhood. It is essential that we transport all those exhibiting symptoms, so that they will be in the best position to receive the anti-viral cure, once it is finished. Please allow the retrieval team Leader to assist you in moving your infected household members onto the retrieval unit. This process will be slow, so we ask for your cooperation. Please don't pack anything to send along with the infected. They are being moved to sterile locations. They will not be permitted to bring their belongings. You may include a list on standard A4 paper, detailing any medications that are essential for life. Please do not include vitamins, allergy medications, herbal supplements, or anything else that is not life-essential. We will be transporting all infected. If a person in your home is just beginning to show symptoms, they are to board the retrieval unit. This process will repeat daily at 0600, 1300, and 2000 hours. Once treatment options are finalized and disbursed, and your loved one has received medical clearance, their name will be posted on a special website, along with the Primary Treatment Facility they were placed in. That site will be updated 4 times per day, at 0900, 1200, 1500, and 1800. You can find the site at dubble ewe dubble ewe dubble ewe dot Primary Treatment Outpatients dot com. We will not be posting a phone number, as we feel our resources are better spent fighting this terrible illness. This information has been incorporated into the EBS, so please do not panic if you feel as though you've missed something. On behalf of the citizens of this great country, and the President of the United States, I would just like to extend my deepest sympathies to families who have already lost loved ones. You are in our hearts. To those with loved ones still suffering, please rest assured that they will be well cared for at their Primary Treatment Facility. Thank you for your time. " He stepped away from the podium, and Brenda expected the standard flurry of flash photography and hastily hollered questions, but until the picture went dark, there was only silence, as though the room was entirely empty save for the camera.

Brenda sat back against the couch. This seemed off, somehow. Were they imposing a quarantine? He hadn't said anything about it being mandatory. But neither had he said the words voluntary. So Brenda thought about what she knew about the military. Her daddy and her brother were both soldiers. And soldiers don't make suggestions. They either give, or receive orders. But how could putting all of those people in once place be a good idea? Wouldn't that create one of those superbugs they were always talking about on the morning shows? All right, then. But if they were working on a treatment, maybe it would be better to have all of the infected available as soon as possible. Perhaps this was more damage control than anything else. Absently, she tucked the edge of the blanket under Fritz's legs. His fever wasn't showing any sign of breaking. He wasn't really lucid enough to eat solid food, but she kept dribbling water into his dry mouth, and painting applesauce and pudding on his tongue, so he could keep his strength up. She knew he needed IV fluids, that what he was losing from sweat and the occasional bout of retching, must be throwing his electrolytes off balance. But the hospitals had been at capacity since 18 hours into the outbreak. Maybe that was the real goal of the Treatment Facilities? To free up the hospitals for those not suffering from this nameless killer? That made a little more sense to Brenda.

She dipped the cloth into the bowl of tepid water, and sponged Fritz's face again, wiping down to his jaw, and around to the back of his neck. He groaned, shuddering violently. His mouth worked convulsively, and Brenda heard the rebellion in his gut, and scrambled for the wastebasket. She held it beneath his face, and rolled him forward, his head lolling limply on his neck, so that he was over the plastic lined can. He groaned again, and then made a terrible noise. His jaw fell slack, and a stream of thick, green bile jetted forcefully into the wastebasket. It smelled awful, the sickly sweet odor of rancidity, and a terrible coppery tang that reminded Brenda of crime scenes. His body roiled, and he retched again, the substance now thicker, almost tar-like. Brenda held her breath, hoping the worst was over. Fritz whimpered, and his eyes opened for the first time in over 15 hours. Brenda met his gaze steadily, as she smoothed her hand over his back, soaked with sweat. She murmured soothingly, easing him back down on to the pillow. She wiped his mouth with the cloth, then dribbled a little of the water, and a little of the sports drink she'd found stashed far in the back of the fridge. It was a year out of date, but she figured things like that were unlikely to actually go bad, and anyway, it smelled okay, unlike the basket of sick at her elbow. She patted Fritz on the arm, and pushed herself into a standing position. She carried the whole business to the kitchen, where she tied the grocery bag liner tightly closed. She moved that into a second grocery bag, and tied that closed as well. She took that, and placed it into one of the cereal boxes she'd scavenged from the pantry, their bags now labeled and scattered on the counter. She put the box into another bag, and tied that closed. Then she took the finished parcel and marched it straight out to the bins behind the house. She came back into the kitchen, and dipped her hands in a bowl of bleach water, before soaping them under the faucet. She knew it wasn't ideal, but it was the best she could do. This wouldn't last forever, and then she'd have a great story to combat all of the stories Frtizi had about taking care of her. This made the common cold seem like child's play, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

4 HOURS LATER

Brenda glanced at her watch again. She'd basically decided that the Treatment Facility was really the only option. Fritz was getting worse. She'd thought maybe they were through the worst of it. His fever had broken after that last round of vomiting, but his skin was so cool to the touch now, that she kept her thumb over his pulse, just to make sure it was still beating. It had been hours since she'd had anything to eat, and her stomach loudly reminded her of that. She stood, wincing as her knees cracked, and trudged to the kitchen.

Nothing looked especially appetizing, but she pulled out a yogurt, and the last of some very sad looking blueberries, stirring them into the tiny plastic cup. She ate at the counter, mechanically spooning the yogurt into her mouth, staring at the calendar on the wall. She blinked, as it occurred to her that her birthday was in less than a week. She turned to the sink, and rinsed the cup out, before tossing it in the recycling bin. She paused as she soaped the spoon, at what sounded like a thud coming from the living room. The sound of a groan pulls the spoon from her fingers with a clatter, and she dashed back to the sofa. Fritz had heaved himself into a sitting position, though he listed badly to one side. Brenda moved to crouch next to him.

"Fritzi? Honey, what do you need?" She peered closely at his face, which seemed grayer than it ought to. His lips were pale, almost bloodless, and his eyes, beneath drooping lids looked filmy, like the eyes of an octogenarian. He didn't respond, though his mouth worked soundlessly. She reached for his Gatorade, positioning the straw for him.

"Come on, honey. You need to drink some more. I know you don't feel well, but…" The force of his hand knocking the cup from hers ended her sentence early. He lunged forward, and Brenda instinctively put her arms out to catch him, as he tipped off the couch. He landed on her with the full force of his body weight, and Brenda winced as the air rushed out of her lungs with a whoosh. He seemed to struggle with his limbs, as though they weren't really cooperating, and Brenda wrapped her arms around him, whispering soothing words, smoothing her hands along his back to calm him.

"Fritzi, we're going to need to work together, so we can get up, all right? I'm going to try and roll you to the side, and then slide out from under you." Brenda kept her voice low and reassuring, as she canted her hip up into his body, twisting her torso at the same time to slide him off of her. She breathed deeply, feeling her lungs ache with the expansion as his bulk left her chest. His head lolled limply on her arm, his gaze unfocused, jaw slack. She sighed, then slid her arm from beneath his head. She grabbed the blanket from the couch, and pulled it around his body, then shoved a pillow beneath his head. She made sure the trashcan was within arm's reach, and fumbled for the tiny netbook. As she scrolled through the recent postings to the Twitter, she felt a small ball of fear take shape in her gut. Washington had reported its first cases of the illness, and the hysteria seemed to be spreading as rapidly as the disease. Brenda knew she'd been as careful as possible, but she couldn't help but wonder why she wasn't ill, all things considered. She pondered that as she idly scrolled through the last 45 minutes of tweeters. It certainly was a fast moving media, she was compelled to admit that. A group called Lulzsick was claiming responsibility for the illness, explaining that it was a nanoparticle designed to turn humans into androids at the cellular level. Brenda scoffed. For as handy as this whole social media thing was, weeding out the crazy was proving to be more than a chore. People were on a zombie kick, as well. She rolled her eyes, and flipped the netbook closed. She stretched her legs out in front of her, and leaned forward to grab her ankles, stretching the big muscles in her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the shallow rise and fall of Fritz's chest.

Checking the clock, she wondered again how long before the retrieval vehicle arrived. She hoped that the medical team would have oxygen on the truck, because Fritz's skin was pallid, and there was a hint of blue around his lips, and on the beds of his fingernails. She stood, and wandered over to the window, pulling the blinds apart to peer through them. The street was a quiet one under normal circumstances, but the eerie emptiness of it gave her the creeps. Even the sun seemed to have turned its back on California, and a thick overcast sky hung heavy with the promise of an evening storm. Brenda smirked as she recalled hearing those songs about how it never rained in Southern California as a child. She'd longed to move to a place with no rain, not realizing until she got here that the soothing patterns of rain on a roof, the gentle timpani of a southern shower, were things that she'd miss. Oh, it rained here. But it was more of a meteorological temper fit, than an actual storm. A few claps of thunder, a flash or two of lightening, and a few minutes rain spilled down in a petulant deluge. Hardly a balm for the weary soul, anyway.

She let the blinds snap shut, and turned her back on the window. There was nothing out there for her, and it was past time for Fritz to have more fluids. She grabbed the cup from its fallen place on the rug, and took it into the kitchen to wash and fill it. After bleaching and rinsing both the cup, and her hands, she filled it with cool, fresh water, wanting to save the sports drink until she was sure he'd keep the few sips of water down. As she walked into the living room, Fritz's leg jerked beneath the blanket. She bit her lip, hoping he wasn't having a bad fever dream. When she'd had pneumonia in college, the fever dreams had been horrible. Clowns, and nuns, and carnivorous chipmunks had plagued her restless sleep until the motrin in her system had finally driven them back into her subconscious where they belonged. She knelt on the floor next to him, and reached for his head, cupping her hand around the base of his skull, and lifting his head onto her knees. The tendons in his neck stood out thickly, and his breath seemed to be scraping out of his lungs, and Brenda winced at the stale, sick scent of it. She dribbled some water onto his lips, and tongue, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. The chill of his skin didn't seem so shocking, and she wondered if he was warming up, or if she was growing accustomed to the lower temperature of his body.

Fritz's body went stiff in her arms, and his eyes rolled wildly. His legs began to spasm, and the tremors seemed to travel upward, and out to his arms, his muscles contracting violently. Brenda's first instinct was to hold him, but her training overrode her instinct, and she pushed him on to his side, grabbing on to his jaw firmly. The rest of his body flailed, and Brenda fought to keep her grip, biting back tears as the bitter sting of ammonia assaulted her nose. His back snapped taught, and he held an inhuman pose, bowed in the middle, spastic limbs arrow straight, and then, he went totally limp. Brenda let go of his jaw, and traced her fingers to his pulse point, searching for the tell-tale flutter. The tears fell faster as she pulled his wrist into her lap, double checking what she feared. She rolled him onto his back, and straddled his waist, slamming her fist into the center of his chest, and beginning compressions.

"Come on, Fritz Howard! You do NOT get to check out on me now!" She sobbed, as she tried to start his stubborn heart. "Don't give up on me….don't give up."


End file.
